Love and Sentiment
by thegirlwhowondered
Summary: "Alright John, one more miracle. But only for you." - Johnlock reunion fluff plus bonus!Mycroft mini-chapter. Not really based off anything.
1. Love

**Hello everyone! This is random Johnlock reunion fluff with a bonus Mycrof mini-chapter! Why? Because...because...I don't know. Because why not!**

**Some swearing. That's about it for warnings. Please feel free to leave prompts or requests in my inbox, or even just drop in and say hi. Enjoy!**

* * *

_It's been six months to the very day since the Reichenbach Fall. Six whole months and every time I go out even now, I'm fixed with looks of pity, sympathy and despair. People rarely speak to me. They don't need to. Their faces say it all: "I'm so sorry, John. For every lie he told us, it was double for you. He was your flatmate, your best friend, and he betrayed you in every possible way."_

_I am beginning to see where his 'everyone in the world is stupid' attitude has come from. _

_Sherlock was not a liar, and there isn't a thing anyone can say or do that would make me believe anything else, not for a second. He was the greatest man I've ever met. He was clever, so clever; and underneath the blatancy and the often brutal and inconsiderate honesty, he was also one of the kindest. _

_Well, ok, maybe not at first. But over time, I watched him evolve, like all people do. I could see him change a little more every day. The way he would smile became more genuine. The way he would frown became more honest. The way he would view the actions of those around him became more connected. I regret many things I've seen and done and watched happen in my life, but if there is one thing that I wouldn't ever change for the whole world, it would be this. Because Sherlock is and always will be my best friend, because I _

"Because I..." John swallowed, his fingers freezing on the keys. He couldn't bring himself to do it. This wasn't the first time John had tried to write an entry in his blog since the fall. So many times he would type away several thousand words, but somehow, they never did his feelings justice and he always deleted the entry before he even posted it. And that's what he did with this one - a few keystrokes and the entire few paragraphs were gone.

John leaned back in his seat, dragging his hands over his face. He looked weary, drained and shattered; like a man who had lost the one true thing he ever had. Sherlock's suicide had come with a painful, existential nagging in his brain - really, what did he have, if not his best friend?

John's gaze wandered back to his computer screen, and settled on the sidebar image on the page. It was Sherlock in that ridiculous hat he'd hated so much, with his collar turned up to hide his face from the press. "You dickhead," John said to no one in particular - maybe the picture. "You complete, utter asshole. What was wrong with you? Why did you think it would be ok to-" John cut himself off. As if yelling at a picture would do anything.

Grabbing his jacket, John headed out the front door with absolutely no idea in his head of where he was going. Maybe it was because there was only one place he ever ended up. John kneeled before the gravestone, reaching out slowly to brush the dirt away. There was no one else around, of course - no one would want to visit the grave of a dead fraud. There was, however, a black umbrella draped over the gravestone; soaking wet from the sun shower that had just passed. How did that get there?

John sat back on his heels and sighed. "It's been six months. More than long enough for you to stop this. Whatever your plan was, Sherlock, it worked. You can just stop. Stop being dead. One last miracle, just for me." John had long since given up hope that Sherlock may be alive somewhere, but it still helped to speak to him like he was. Maybe, if there was a heaven and Sherlock could hear him from there, John could still get his message through.

"Come on," he said quietly. "Just give it up. Come home. We'll head back to the flat, and Mrs Hudson will have tea ready, and you can shout pointlessly at the television and whine about how bored you are and you wish someone would get horribly murdered already." He blinked away the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "And everything will be perfect again."

John's words were met only with the distant sound of thunder; and a few seconds after, a sudden downpour of rain. It didn't bother him. The rain blended in seamlessly with his tears, leaving his devastated expression as the only window into his pain. "Come back. Come back, please, Sherlock," John whispered. Well, his lips were moving anyway; he didn't know if any sound was coming out. He didn't care.

"Please come back to me. Please."

"Alright John, one more miracle. But only for you."

John froze for a full minute, before suddenly scrambling to his feet and wheeling around. There before him stood the most impossible dream he'd ever hoped for. Curly hair, prominent cheekbones, dark coat and scarf, and know-it-all expression. Had John passed out on the grass? He was certainly covered in enough mud to fool anyone into thinking he had.

"Sherlock?" He whispered, reaching forward and poking the figure in the chest. Well, he wasn't a ghost; ghosts weren't corporeal.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock said almost impatiently. "I'm not dead. Surprise! Can we get out of the rain now?"

He wasn't a fake either. Only Sherlock would be such an insensitive dick at a time like this. Before Sherlock could add another smartass remark, John's fist had made contact with his face. And then his arm. And then his foot found Sherlock's leg. But surprisingly enough, the consulting detective didn't raise so much as a finger to defend himself. In fact, he seemed almost resigned to John punching him. Like he thought he deserved it. How irritatingly...human!

John's punches grew weaker and more hopeless, until eventually he launched himself forward and threw his arms around Sherlock, who finally flinched. It seemed this was something he didn't expect.

"Sherlock...you're here...really here...don't...don't leave me...never again..." He choked through sobs. And Sherlock didn't have a sudden personality epiphany. He didn't see his best friend in trouble and miraculously gain the power of tact. He didn't offer soothing words or a gentle pat on the back. He just rested his hands on John's waist and let him cry for a little bit; and when he decided it was enough, Sherlock leaned down and whispered, "Finish what you were going to say."

"What?" John mumbled, wiping his face and straightening his clothes. He was soaking wet and muddy, but other than that, he could still at least try to look presentable in case someone walked past.

"You come down here almost every day," Sherlock said. "And you say the same things out loud every time, or so I'm told. Always ask me to just stop being dead, to come back to you. And you always want to say more, but you never do."

"How did you...?"

"Homeless network."

"Oh."

"Well?"

John let out a shaky sigh. "It's nothing. I mean, really...nothing. You're back and that's what matters."

Sherlock put his hands on John's shoulders.

"Just say it. For me, John?"

"But you already know what it is," John whispered, ducking his head. "You must."

"Maybe." Sherlock frowned. "Actually, I'm not sure. Which is why you have to tell me. Because I really do need to know..."

There was a moment there where the only sound was the rain pelting down around them. Then finally, finally...John took a deep breath and whispered, "I love you, Sherlock. I have always loved you, since that first case. I mean, you changed my life...how could I not?"

A huge grin broke across Sherlock's face and he bounced on his heels excitedly. "Yes! I thought that was it!"

While Sherlock celebrated his victory, John could only stare. What the hell was wrong with him? Again, anger boiled up inside John and he lashed out, his fist making contact with Sherlock's beautifully notable cheeks. "What the hell are you-you know what? Forget that. How are you even here, alive? I think I deserve an explanation."

"Oh. Right." Rubbing his sore face, Sherlock cleared his throat. "Or here's a better idea, how about we get out of this rain and go have that tea Mrs Hudson will have ready, and I can tell you all about it?"

Despite being totally unable to tell if he was more happy or irritated, John nodded. "That...that is a good idea. It's quite cold out. Oh, but Sherlock-?"

Sherlock never found out what John was about to say. Or maybe he already knew and that was why he did it - he leaned down and shut his best friend up with a kiss. John froze for a second...and then melted. After what may have been several minutes or even several hours, Sherlock slowly pulled away.

"Come out of the rain, John," he whispered.

John, with wide eyes and a rather surprised look in them, nodded. "Yeah...yeah, let's get out of the rain." Sherlock lead John to the shelter of a nearby retunda and pulled out his phone to call a taxi.

"Sherlock?" John's eyes were still on Sherlock's grave, which was just barely visible from where they were standing. "Why is there an umbrella there? Isn't that a little...redundant?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock shrugged. "It was put there for the same reason you didn't have the heart to pick it up when it started raining again..."


	2. Sentiment

...Sentiment.

Of all the reasons in the world, it was the only one Mycroft could figure that would have brought him to his brother's grave. Sentiment and guilt.

Neither were emotions he was too familiar with. Neither were emotions he was too fond of either. Being here, Mycroft knew, would do no one any good. He had meetings and paperwork and other commitments he should be seeing to. There was nothing for him here. The shiny black gravestone wouldn't offer any closure or conversation; and certainly not forgiveness.

No, Mycroft never expected forgiveness. The only person who would have the slightest inclination to forgive him for all he'd done would be Sherlock, but he was long gone now. That only left sentiment.

It wasn't so unbelievable: after all, Mycroft did love his brother. In spite of his arrogance and his stubbornness; in spite of all the mistakes they'd both made over the years, the feeling was there. Why had he never said so, when he had the chance? Why hadn't he ever spent any time with his brother, taken him to lunch, asked about his life?

Well, that didn't matter now. It was too late. Mycroft didn't cry as the minutes ticked by. He just stood there with his signature black umbrella tucked under his arm, gazing at the dark, shiny stone until it began to rain. It was only a light drizzle; the sun was still shining, but it was enough to get someone wet, certainly.

Rather than open his umbrella and shield himself from the sun shower, Mycroft leaned it against Sherlock's grave to protect the headstone from getting wet. He knew it was a futile action and would serve no actual purpose. But maybe, that was ok. Maybe if there was some kind of heaven (not likely though!) and Sherlock was there, he would look down on his brother and understand all the things he never said.

And then Mycroft spun on his heel and headed back to the car, smiling at what a fool he'd turned into since his brother's death.

There was an identical grin on Sherlock's face as he watched Mycroft leave.


End file.
